There Is No Document Of Civilization Which

This Is How One Pictures The Angel Of History. His Face Is Turned Toward The Past. Where We Perceived A Chain Of Events, He Sees One Single Catastrophe Which Keeps Piling Wreckage And Hurls It In Front Of His Feet. The Angel Would Like To Stay, Awaken The Dead, And Make Whole What Has Been Smashed. But A Storm Is Blowing From Paradise; It Has Got Caught In His Wings With Such Violence That The Angel Can No Longer Close Them. This Storm Irresistably Propels Him Into The Future To Which His Back Is Turned, While The Pile Of Debris Before Him Grows Skyward. The Storm Is What We Call Progress.

Only He Who Can View His Own Past As An Abortion Sprung From Compulsion And Need Can Use It To Full Advantage In The Present.

The Greater The Decrease In The Social Significance Of An Art Form, The Sharper The Distinction Between Criticism And Enjoyment By The Public. The Conventional Is Uncritically Enjoyed, And The Truly New Is Criticized With Aversion.

Nothing Is Poorer Than A Truth Expressed As It Was Thought. Committed To Writing In Such Cases, It Is Not Even A Bad Photograph. Truth Wants To Be Startled Abruptly, At One Stroke, From Her Self-immersion, Whether By Uproar, Music Or Cries For Help.

The Idea That Happiness Could Have A Share In Beauty Would Be Too Much Of A Good Thing.